


Rivers Always Reach the Sea

by prozacplease



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Abortion, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternative Anatomy, Attempted Sexual Assault, Babies, Body Horror, Breeding, Child Loss, Childbirth, Discussion of Abortion, Disfigurement, Fluff and Angst, Gender Identity, HYDRA Trash Party, Hormones, Id Fic, Impregnation, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Pregnant Sex, Self-Hatred, Slurs, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prozacplease/pseuds/prozacplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock has spent his entire life fighting his sexuality. He's forgotten that it's what makes him whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. March 1989

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [mollynoble](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mollynoble/profile) for being my beta! I also want to thank [Bekaylo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bekaylo/profile) and [Weirdlet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdlet/profile) for bouncing ideas around with me. And thank you to [GlitterCrow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/glittercrow/profile) for helping me with the plot.

Brock cries out as his lower abdomen is gripped by another strong contraction. The pain is bright and glassy and inescapable. His body tells him when and how to react, so the command from the doctor is a degrading redundancy. 

“Push.” 

Brock holds his breath and uses his already fatigued muscles to bear down. He can feel the heat in his face and the vein in his forehead standing out. For as hard as he’s pushing, there is little progress. His hips are narrow and the baby is larger than average. 

When the doctor tells him to stop, Brock collapses back against the padded table. His thigh muscles are cramping and he wants to move his legs, but they are suspended in obstetric stirrups. Brock has been positioned like this for over twelve hours. 

“I can’t—I can’t—” Brock says. He’s panting and his voice is hoarse. 

Brock barely registers what the doctor and his team are saying. It’s about the baby. They’re worried about the baby. Brock is too. But he’s only a means to an end—Brock realized that a long time ago. He doesn’t have much time to think before another contraction crowds all rational thought out of his head. He howls in pain. 

His slit burns as the baby’s head starts to crown. Animal instinct tells him to keep pushing. Just a little more pressure and it will be over. But the doctor snaps at him to stop. Everything has begun to progress so quickly; Brock can feel his womb contracting. It takes a precious amount of Brock’s dwindling strength to stop the downward movement in his birth canal. 

“He’s tearing down toward his perineum.” The doctor speaks as if Brock isn’t in the room. “Give me a pair of scissors.” 

Brock screams as an episiotomy is performed without any anesthetic. One side of his highly innervated slit is cut with a pair of surgical scissors. The pain is so blinding that Brock feels nauseous and faint. Important pelvic muscles are severed and Brock is bleeding badly, but the team is in a hurry and unconcerned. The baby practically falls out of Brock during the next push. There’s the horrific sensation of his ruined slit giving way and a gush of blood-tinged fluid. 

The doctor holds the baby in his gloved hands while a nurse clamps and then cuts the umbilical cord. Despite the physical and emotional trauma, Brock’s breath hitches when the baby is lifted into his line of sight. The blood-smeared infant starts to squirm and cry. 

“A big, healthy boy,” the doctor says to his team. 

Brock is listless from exhaustion and blood loss. He lies limp on the table and listens to the baby squall while the doctor sits down to sew up his torn slit and ass. Brock’s thoughts are scattered. He’s in pain and breathing hard and all he wants to do is hold his pup. But they never let him.


	2. May 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that it took me so long to update this! My inspiration for it comes and goes.

Brock lifts up his t-shirt and tucks the hem under his chin. He hates this.

He unbuttons the fly of his fatigues and pushes them further down his hips. The high waist of the pants means they are in the way. The swab of the alcohol wipe is cold on his lower abdomen. He uses a small vial of liquid to fill a syringe with a needle attached. Brock holds the syringe up to the light, flicking it to get the air bubbles out of the medication.

There’s a small pinch and a burning sting as the needle pierces his skin. Brock is skilled at giving himself shots, but it still hurts. It’s one of the many shitty things that come with being an omega. He’d rather deal with the monthly injection than take a pill every day, though.

Every month, Brock gives himself a suppressant shot to prevent himself from going into heat. The resulting pain and swing in hormones is his body’s reaction to the medication. Although he gave himself his shot a few days late this month, there shouldn’t be any problems. Still, his womb aches for a baby.

Brock is cramping before he can get the mess cleaned up and thrown in the trash. He takes some ibuprofen and lays down on the couch. He’s moody and irritated as he gets his phone out to text Jack.

“Bring back my heating pad. Now,” he types out.

A few minutes later, Jack responds, “Sure thing, boss.”

“Door’s open.”

There’s a quick knock on the door before Jack opens it. He has the rolled up heating pad tucked under his arm.

“I’d ask how you’re feeling, but I think I already know the answer,” Jack says as he nudges the door closed with the heel of his boot.

“I’m fine,” Brock says.

He starts to sit up, but Jack waves him down. Brock watches as Jack plugs in the heating pad next to the lamp on the end table. He puts it on the highest setting and lays it across Brock’s abdomen.

“Cutting it a little close this month, don’t you think?” Jack asks. “You’re gonna be all crampy and mad tomorrow.”

Brock gives a little shrug. “I’m not worried. Just a training exercise.”

Jack moves to sit down on the other end of the couch and Brock draws his legs up so he has room. Jack is the only alpha that Brock has ever had a positive relationship with. He’s endlessly interested in having Brock for a mate, but he also respects boundaries that other alphas usually don’t.

“I wish you didn’t have to do this to yourself,” Jack says.

“Better than getting gangraped,” Brock says. “Or spayed, I guess.”

“There’s a third option, too…”

Brock rolls his eyes. He doesn’t want to get this discussion started again. Conversations with Jack often turn to pair bonding and pups and settling down. Brock likes Jack, but he doesn’t want any of that.

“Not for me,” Brock says. He hugs the heating pad to himself as a cramp tightens his uterus.

“Why? You’re an omega. You should want a mate and a bunch of pups running around,” Jack says. His tone is cheerful and teasing rather than interrogative. Brock appreciates that.

“Not all omegas want to stay at home and be baby factories,” Brock says with a snort. “Some of us like being independent.”

It’s a weak defense and he knows that Jack doesn’t buy it. An unspayed omega his age should be rabid for a baby. But Brock can’t explain the real reason why he’s unwilling to give in to basic biology.

Jack gives a melodramatic, wistful sigh. “I’m patient. I’ll wait until you come around.”

Brock laughs, but it actually makes him sad. Ten years his junior, Jack is an attractive and desirable alpha. He shouldn’t be wasting his time and effort on an omega like Brock. He’s damaged goods, in more ways than one. Brock is certain that Jack would move on if he knew his history.

“Well, in the meantime, we can always screw around,” he says, trying to distract both himself and Jack from their respective problems. “Since I just had my shot and all.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jack asks with a grin.

Brock nods and spreads his knees invitingly. It seems counterintuitive, but orgasms always help his cramps. The ibuprofen and the warmth of the heating pad have taken the edge off the intermittent pain, leaving Brock feeling nothing but arousal.

“And you wonder why I won’t give up on being your mate,” Jack says.

He moves in close and pulls off Brock’s pants and underwear at the same time. Brock reaches down and runs his fingertips over the soft, fleshy folds of his slit. He sees that Jack’s cock is already hard in his pants.

Male alphas and betas have penises and testicles. However, male omegas have only a slit, which is similar to a woman’s vagina. Rather than having a clitoris, the walls of the slit contain all the nerve endings. Penetration is very pleasurable, which encourages omegas to mate.

Jack rubs Brock’s bare thighs and leans in to kiss him. Brock groans into Jack’s mouth as two thick fingers are pressed into his slit at the same time. It’s the perfect amount of pressure and movement against the sensitive walls of muscle. He’s already wet with slick. Brock tries to sit up and make a reach for Jack’s fly, but the alpha gently pushes him back down with his free hand.

“Just lay back and enjoy this,” Jack says. “I’ll get mine. Let’s worry about you first.”

Brock doesn’t like being passive, but Jack often insists. Jack’s fingers twist and rub inside him before he starts moving them in and out. Brock moans sharply.

“Maybe this’ll help you relax and not be so grouchy tomorrow, hm?” Jack asks, voice low.

Brock lets out a shaky laugh. “Doubt it.”

The combination of getting fingered and Jack’s alpha scent is enough to get Brock whimpering like the needy little omega he is. Instinct tells him to ask for Jack’s cock and beg for pups. The words are on the tip of his tongue as his brain catalogues all of Jack’s positive attributes as a potential mate. Brock is able to keep himself under control, but Jack isn’t.

“You don’t know how bad I wanna put a baby in you,” Jack murmurs, placing kisses against Brock’s jaw and throat.

Brock has heard it a hundred times, but he still shivers and groans involuntarily. It both annoys and excites him that Jack can seemingly read his mind.

His slit twitches around Jack’s fingers as he continues to slide them in and out. Brock tries to get lost in the mindless static of pleasure, but he can’t stop himself from thinking about what this would feel like without the nerve damage he sustained over twenty years ago. The numbness where the doctor cut him hasn’t prevented Brock from enjoying sex, but he needs more stimulation than most omegas.

“More,” Brock pleads against the side of Jack's face.

Jack scissors his fingers inside Brock while thrusting them faster. Brock moans and begins to rock his hips against Jack's hand. He teases the press of a third finger before pushing it into Brock's tense, glistening slit. Brock cries out and throws his arms around Jack's sweaty neck. His fingers move easily thanks to the clear, slippery lubrication Brock's body provides.

“Are you gonna come on my fingers?” Jack asks. “I can feel you twitchin’ on ‘em.”

“Fuck,” Brock says. His voice comes out choked and broken. He’s starting to build toward orgasm. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

Omega orgasms are tricky. Any change in pace or positioning may ruin Brock’s climax. But he has Jack well trained. He doesn’t diverge from what’s working.

Brock suddenly shudders and cries out, hands grabbing fistfuls of Jack’s t-shirt. His slit clamps on Jack’s fingers for a few moments. The series of muscular contractions would be milking Jack’s cock, guiding semen to Brock’s cervix. These greedy little twitches cause some cramping, but the pleasure blunts the pain.

Brock is panting as he peppers Jack’s mouth and cheeks with grateful kisses. Jack waits until Brock’s slit relaxes before removing his fingers and licking them clean. Despite his satiation, Brock is all too eager to open up Jack’s fly and return the favor. 

* * *

It’s dark when the helicopter lands in a field near a heavily wooded ridge. The STRIKE Team tosses all of their gear into the dewy grass so their transport doesn’t have to linger for unloading. It’s early summer, but the morning is chilly without the warmth of the sun. The forest is full of birdsong as the team hikes up the ridge.

Despite being an omega, Brock is the leader of his team. Heat suppressants and a demand for respect allow him to command a group of alphas and betas. Having Jack as his second-in-command helps too. He’s worked with other omegas in the past, but they never seem to last as soldiers. Oftentimes they end up getting raped by their own teammates.

But Brock isn’t worried about any of this as they look for a place to set up camp. All they have to do is spend a few days in the woods without killing each other. He’s been on countless excursions like this without any problems. The purpose of the training exercise is nothing more than to build camaraderie and practice primitive camping.

It takes a day’s hike to find a suitable campsite, a secluded clearing tucked into a lush mountain valley. Everyone is tired as they pitch tents and roll out sleeping bags at dusk. Brock is half asleep as he devours an MRE, then crawls into his tent. Everyone else doubles up, but Brock has to sleep alone because he’s an omega. Sometimes Jack slips in next to him and reaches down the front of his pants, playing with his slit until he's groaning into his sleeping bag.

Not tonight, though. Brock masturbates quietly instead. He's too tired to feel very aroused, but he touches himself to ease the cramps in his lower abdomen. His orgasm is swift and brings relief. However, there is a bit of blood on his fingers when he pulls them from his slit. There is sometimes spotting when a suppressant shot is given late. A reminder of a thwarted heat. It's annoying, but nothing to cause alarm. He begrudgingly sticks a pad into the crotch of his underwear and rolls over to sleep.

When Brock wakes up, he’s glad that his cramps are gone. Even though it was late, the shot must have finally started working. His thoughts turn to the day ahead as he shimmies out of his sleeping bag and walks into the treeline. Birds are singing, but it’s still dark enough that Brock has to use a flashlight to see. It takes him a few minutes to find a suitable place to take a piss. His anatomy makes it difficult, but Brock is an expert after years in the field.

He smells it the instant that he starts to urinate. There’s a sharp, hormonal tang to it. An undeniable indication that he’s going into heat. The shot didn’t stick.

“No, no, no,” Brock moans to himself.

Icy tendrils of panic begin to stab into Brock’s thoughts. He’s a lone omega in a mixed group of alphas and betas. It’s only a matter of time before someone smells him, and there’s nowhere for him to escape to.

He tells himself that he can rough it in the woods until the heat passes. A week, at most. He just needs to get some supplies before he can make a break for it. Maybe he can keep his job if he prevents anyone from mating with him. Brock is trying to sneak back to camp when he is attacked from behind.  


	3. May 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to [weirdlet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdlet/profile) for helping me overcome some obstacles with this chapter. And thank you to [GlitterCrow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/glittercrow/profile) for proofing it for me. 
> 
> Writing this one was hard for me and I'm not really happy with how the sex scene turned out. I hope you all like it, though! Also, knotting kinda squicks me, so that doesn't happen in this universe.

Brock hits the ground hard, the weight of the alpha on top of him propelling him into the dirt. One hand is on the back of his head, holding him down. The other is pulling at his belt and fatigues. Instinct tells Brock to go limp and beg for mercy before he’s brutalized. The mere smell of the alpha pawing at Brock is enough to make him want to spread his legs. 

But the indignity of it all infuriates Brock. He’s not going to be taken. Brock twists onto his back, throwing a punch square into the face of one of his men. It’s Kosinski, but Brock knew that just from his scent alone. Blood gushes from Kosinski’s broken nose, and it drips onto Brock as they struggle. 

“Get the fuck offa me!” Brock yells. 

“C’mon, you’re in heat. I can smell it,” Kosinski says pinning Brock’s hands to the ground. “I’m not your SIC, but I want first dibs.” 

Brock knows he’s giving off that horny, fevered scent that gets even betas riled up. He doesn’t have to be aroused or even willing to make anyone think he’s looking to mate. 

“Not interested,” Brock spits. 

Kosinski presses his thigh between Brock’s legs, trying to rub at his slit through his pants. Normally it’s a surefire way to get an unruly omega to relent, but Brock isn’t having it. 

“I’m gonna need a little more than your shitty prom night foreplay,” Brock says. 

He jams his leg upward and racks Kosinski on his knee. The shock from the blow provides enough time for Brock to get away. He runs blindly for a few moments, focusing only on escape. His first thought is to run deeper into the woods. But without any gear, he risks getting hopelessly lost and dying of exposure. Brock values himself more than that. He’s angry now. Just because he’s in heat doesn’t mean that he should get assaulted. 

When Brock makes it to the clearing, he realizes that coming back to camp was a mistake. It’s barely dawn, but everyone has been awoken by the commotion. He can feel his men leering at him as he makes a mad dash for his tent and the backpack inside it. Brock yells in fright when someone suddenly grabs his arm. He whirls around—snarling and ready to throw a punch—only to see Jack. Brock is instantly wet from his touch and scent alone. 

“Brock, what the hell?” Jack hisses. 

Brock watches as the realization washes over Jack. He can smell Brock’s heat. 

“I know,” Brock says. “The shot was too late.” 

Jack keeps a tight grip on Brock’s arm, seemingly unwilling to get him go. And for good reason. Kosinski is emerging from the treeline, face bloodied. Jack doesn’t need to ask Brock what happened in order to put things together. 

“Did you fucking touch him?” Jack shouts. 

“He doesn’t belong to you,” Kosinski says. “You’re not mates.” 

Jack releases Brock’s arm, leaving him standing there with his backpack. Brock still wants to run, but he feels cemented in place. He’s never seen Jack so infuriated. It’s frightening… and arousing. 

“You didn’t answer my question.” Jack is stalking over to Kosinski. His shoulders are squared with rage. “Did you put your hands on our CO?” 

Everyone is focused on Jack, who is usually quiet and nonaggressive for an alpha. However, Brock knows that Jack has gotten in alpha fights before. He lost the one that left him with the deep scar down the side of his face.

Kosinski grins, his teeth pink with blood. “What are you gonna do about it?” 

Without any warning, Jack punches Kosinski in the side of the head. It’s a sickeningly heavy blow and Kosinski is unconscious before he hits the ground. Jack turns to the other alphas and betas, daring anyone else to challenge him. No one seems willing to come forward with Kosinski laid out in the grass.

Brock always thought he was above omegas who get wet from watching alpha fights, but seeing all this has made him incredibly horny. His slit is twitching and his nipples are hard under his t-shirt. There’s an accompanying twinge in his uterus, which turns into a sharp ache that radiates all the way down to his slit. Brock growls in pain, grabbing his crotch as he crouches down. 

Like a woman’s menstrual period, heats vary in intensity. Brock’s cycle has been chemically suppressed for so long that the rush of hormones is wreaking havoc on his body. 

Brock is almost doubled over when Jack comes to his side. He kneels down, putting his hands on Brock’s shoulders. Jack’s touch makes Brock shiver involuntarily. All his nerve endings are electrified with arousal. 

“It hurts,” Brock says, trying to massage at the pain between his legs. 

Jack’s face is colored by sympathy rather than lust. “I know, baby. I’m gonna take care of you. We'll go somewhere private,” he says. He goes to his tent, gathering his own sleeping bag and backpack. 

Brock can hardly stand himself as he and Jack weave their way through the dense forest. He is lightheaded with a mixture of fear and excitement. Even walking seems to create pleasurable friction between his legs. 

“I want you so bad,” Brock says, lifting Jack’s arm so he can nuzzle against his side as they walk. 

Jack wraps one of his large, tanned arms around Brock and squeezes his side. Brock moans and tries to turn against Jack’s chest. He’s restless and desperate to mate. 

“Let’s get you laid down and I’ll take care of you, okay?” he says, guiding Brock further away from camp.

Jack’s gentle denial makes Brock whine. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but the animal part of his brain has taken over. He thought Jack would throw him down and pound him, and he’s a bit miffed that Jack hasn’t yet. 

When they reach a small clearing, Jack unzips his sleeping bag and lays it out flat on the dewy grass. Brock flops down immediately, starting to strip off his clothes. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Not yet,” Jack says, laying down next to him. “You’re real freaked out and I want to calm you down first.” 

Brock knows Jack is right; he lets the alpha pull him close. Brock shivers and groans when Jack starts stroking the small of his back. Jack’s touch—combined with his scent—makes Brock start aching again. 

“Please,” Brock whimpers. “It hurts. I need you so bad, Jack.” 

“Shhh. That’s just your hormones talking,” Jack says, voice low. “I know you’re uncomfortable, though.” 

He gently pushes Brock onto his back and sits up. He reaches into his backpack, pulling out a few disposable handwarmers. He squeezes them to activate the gel inside, then slides a few under Brock’s shirt. The little packets of warmth feel good against Brock’s cramped belly, but it’s not what he wants. He folds his arms over his middle, feeling pouty. 

“Put this one against your junk,” Jack says. 

Brock knows that Jack isn’t taking a chance by reaching between his legs. He takes the handwarmer and tucks it against his aching crotch. The heat helps with the pain, but it also arouses him. 

Jack lays down next to him again, propped up on one elbow. He smooths a large hand across Brock’s chest. Rubs to his collarbone, soft strokes to his throat. 

“Fuck,” Brock groans. He feels fevered, too warm even with the nip in the air. “Will you kiss me?” 

Jack leans down and Brock grabs both sides of his face, pulling him into a rough kiss. He works lips, tongue, and teeth against Jack, moaning into his mouth. Jack kisses him back, but not with the same intensity. Brock squeezes his knees together, which rubs the handwarmer against his overly sensitive slit. In combination with the kiss, it’s all the stimulation he needs. Brock gasps as a small, sharp orgasm shudders through him.

Jack pulls back to look at Brock. “Aww, baby. Did you come?” he asks, petting his hair. 

Brock nods wordlessly, leaning into the touch. Although the painful ache has momentarily subsided, he’s not satisfied. It’s an intense, disconcerting feeling. He’s afloat on a warm, frothy sea of afterglow, but he’s still horny. 

“Jack, I need you to fuck me,” he says, panting. “Please.” 

“I don’t wanna make you do anything you’ll regret,” Jack says. His hand slides down to cup the side of Brock’s face. “This is a bad heat and you’re not thinkin’ straight.” 

“It’s the only thing that’s gonna help. I’ve got condoms,” Brock says, sitting up to reach for his backpack. 

Jack sighs, but looks like he’s considering. “With spermicide?” he asks.

“I think we used all those.” Brock unzips a pocket and digs around until he pulls out a roll of condoms wrapped in silvery foil. “These are fine.” 

He hands Jack the condoms and tosses the handwarmers aside. Brock lays back against the slick material of the sleeping bag, pulling off his boots and yanking down his fatigues. He lets his legs fall open and the chilly morning air feels downright cold on his slit. Goosebumps rise on his shapely thighs.

“There’s a little blood,” Brock warns, reminded of it when he sees his stained pad. “Sorry.” 

Jack looks up from his own ministrations, and the sight of Brock gives him obvious pause. “That’s okay, baby,” he says, moving to kneel between Brock’s legs. 

Seeing Brock’s slit, open and practically dripping with slick, has stirred Jack’s own arousal. He gives himself a few strokes before he rolls the condom down the length of his stiff cock. 

Jack leans in, rubbing his heavy erection against Brock. He arches his back and whimpers when he feels Jack's dick slide against him. Brock normally requires a lot of foreplay—kissing and fingering and oral—to be ready for any sort of penetration. But his heat has made him willing with no petting at all. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Brock groans. He reaches up and kneads his pecs through his t-shirt. The rough handling sends trills of pleasure through his whole body. “I want you to fill me.” 

“I’m gonna fill you so good, sweetheart,” Jack says. “You’re gonna feel so much better afterward.” 

Brock moans at the sensation of Jack’s thick cockhead pressing into the warm, velvety folds of his slit. His body produces enough slick that the lube on the condom is a slippery redundancy. Jack growls low in his throat, slotting himself inside Brock. He’s moving too slowly for Brock’s liking. He’s already rolling his hips in an effort to get Jack all the way inside him.

“Jack, Jack—! Fuck—!” Brock yelps, squirming against the taller man. 

He’s frantic. He can feel the heat of Jack’s arousal through the thin barrier the condom provides. Having Jack’s dick in contact with his slit has set something off inside him.

“Hey, easy…” Jack soothes. He settles down on top of Brock, pinning him down with his body weight and preventing him from getting too wild. “You need me real bad, huh?” 

“Yes!” Brock cries. “I want you to put a baby in me.” 

Jack shudders as he begins to move in sharp, measured thrusts. An omega in heat and begging for a pup is an immediate turnon for any alpha, and Jack is no different. Falling into a rhythm makes Brock’s mind go hazy. His entire being is compressed into one goal—the basal desire to mate and reproduce. Brock clings to Jack’s broad shoulders, blunt fingernails scraping red welts into his bare shoulders. Every thrust elicits a deep, loud groan from Brock’s throat. 

Jack kisses Brock’s throat and huffs his hot, panting breaths against his skin. It’s not the fuck that sends Brock tumbling over the edge, but the rough suck that Jack gives to the side of his neck. Brock’s cries rise into shouts that are undoubtedly heard back at the camp. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming—!” 

Jack grits his teeth and growls when Brock’s slit clamps on him. The muscular contraction only narrows the passage and increases the pleasurable friction. Jack comes in the tightened space with an ugly grunt. He fucks Brock through it, moving until his slit is so tense that he can’t move inside him. 

Brock is whimpering. He can feel Jack’s semen inside him. It’s pooling hot against the inner walls of his body. His slit is twitching in little rhythmic spasms, guiding the thick seed up to his cervix and fertile womb. 

“The condom broke,” he says blearily. 

“What?” 

Jack tries to sit up, as if the damage hasn’t already been done. Brock hisses in pain. He is so tight that Jack can’t pull out without hurting him. 

“We’re tied,” Brock says. “You gotta wait ‘til I relax.” 

Jack is the one who seems confused now. They’ve never been stuck like this before. Brock’s slit gets tense after every orgasm, but it takes a heat and a good fuck to get really tied. 

“Sorry, baby,” he murmurs, settling down on Brock again. He kisses Brock’s lips and cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’m gonna take care of you. I promise. We’re gonna be mates.” 

“It’s okay,” Brock says softly. 

Brock is still out of his skull with hormones and Jack is freaked as well. But a deep, overarching peace is quickly replacing the frenzy that overtook Brock’s mind. He nuzzles against Jack, sleepy and safe under underneath him. The certainty of being pregnant gives him a pang of anxiety, but it’s distant. Far-flung and ominously beautiful, like a thunderhead building on the plains.


	4. May 2010

Brock wakes up with a small start. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. The sun is shining through the trees overhead, signaling a later time of day. Brock is stiff and sticky, unable to move. Jack has pulled out, but he's still asleep on top of him.

Brock pats Jack's shoulder to wake him up. “Hey,” he says, voice rusty.

Jack takes in a deep breath and makes a sleepy noise before he sits up. “Hey, baby,” he says. “How are you feelin’?”

The pain and desperation of the heat is gone, leaving Brock strangely empty. He doesn't want to talk or touch. He wants to be left alone.

“Like I made a huge mistake,” Brock says.

He reaches for his clothing, ripping the old pad out of his underwear and throwing it in anger. He's not sure if he's experiencing a hormonal swing or if he's just pissed at himself. Maybe both. Either way, Jack looks hurt. Brock can't even look at him as he gets dressed.

“Are you mad at me?” Jack asks, looking helpless.

“No,” Brock says sharply. He softens as he pulls on his boots. Jack looks like a kicked puppy. “No. I'm mad at the situation. My career is over.”

“A baby doesn't mean that—”

“I'm not talkin’ about no fuckin’ baby!” Brock shouts. “I'm talkin’ about all the other shit that has gone down. All the shit that is my fault. The late shot, getting jumped by Kosinski… Shit, Jack. I could lose my job.”

“Brock, this isn't your fault. Yeah, the shot was late. But they're not always effective. Especially if you've been taking them for decades like you have.” Jack looks like he wants to move in close to comfort Brock, but he doesn't. “This was an accident. And it happened during a training exercise, not a mission. It'll be okay.”

Brock wants to believe Jack. He truly does. But he can't shake the feeling of dread he has. He is silent as he finishes dressing and zips up his backpack. He can’t think of anything to do except go back to camp. With the heat gone, he’s no longer in any danger.

“I just wanna be alone,” Brock says, standing up. He’s sore and tired.

Jack seems defeated, but he nods. “Okay.”

Brock takes a few steps back before turning around to return to camp. It’s flippant, but Jack truly has no idea what he’s been through. Why he doesn’t want another pup. Why he doesn’t deserve one even if he did.

Brock can feel it as he walks. That strange, heavy feeling between his legs. Jack’s semen—copious and thick and sticky—deep inside him. He remembers this sensation from the last time, how excited he was. Brock can’t believe there was ever a time that he was thrilled to be pregnant. It seems like a lifetime ago, a collection of memories experienced by a different person.

Kosinski is conscious when Brock returns, pieces of rolled up gauze stuffed up his broken nose. Their medic has already snapped it back into place. The rest of the STRIKE Team regards Brock with a silent awkwardness, but Kosinski approaches him as he makes his way to his solitary tent.

It’s a bit surreal to face someone who just tried to rape him, but Brock is used to the freakshow of a society he lives in. Alphas are never held accountable for their actions toward an omega in heat. However, Brock being in a position of power calls for a rare apology.

“Can I talk to you, Commander?” Kosinski asks, sounding congested from the gauze in his nose.

Brock doesn’t look at him, doesn't stop walking. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” Kosinski says. He starts to say more, but Brock waves him off.

“Shit happens.”

Brock has made the understatement of the century. But he feels safe as he zips himself up in his tent, surrounded by his sleeping bag and familiar packs of gear. He’s trembling from hunger, although he has no appetite. He forces himself to eat a protein bar and drink water. If he knows how to do anything, it’s survive.

Brock dumps out his backpack to rummage around for more snacks. An avalanche of random items tumbles out of the bag and Brock is looking through them when a small commotion rises among his men. Jack has returned. They’re congratulating him.

“Did you knock him up?” one asks with a laugh.

Brock doesn’t hear Jack’s answer, if he even gives one. It’s not like him to kiss and tell.

Brock turns back to the items from his backpack. An unfamiliar cardboard packet gives him pause. The corners of it are worn and bent, like it has been tumbling around in there for a long time. When Brock flips it over, he sees that it’s an emergency contraception pill. He’s surprised; he thought he took the last one a long time ago. This isn’t the first time that he and Jack have broken a condom, but the pill was just a precaution since he wasn’t in heat. Looking it over, he finds that the medication is expired. He takes it with a sip of water anyway. It’s worth a shot. He’d rather have a heavy bleed than experience an actual abortion later on.

Brock eats a few more protein bars, then compulsively organizes the contents of his backpack. He recognizes the nesting behavior, but doesn't fight it. Sorting through and organizing his bag is also a way to exercise control. It calms and comforts him.

He doesn’t join the rest of his team for dinner and his uterus is already cramping when he curls up in his sleeping bag at dusk. It takes hours for him to fall asleep, and soon after he’s awoken by the sound of someone unzipping his tent.

“What the fuck?” Brock hisses as he sits up.

“Just me,” Jack whispers. He’s dragging his sleeping bag behind him.

Brock growls and flops down, not interested in making room for Jack. “I said I wanna be alone.”

Jack nudges Brock over, spreading out his sleeping bag and laying down next to him. He puts a hand on Brock’s side. Brock wants to bristle and move away from the touch. Show Jack that he’s still pissed about his predicament. But he just lays there.

“I’m worried about you,” Jack says.

“I’m fine,” Brock lies.

Jack shifts, moving in to spoon Brock from behind. He wraps an arm around the smaller man’s waist. “I know you went through hell today,” he says. “And we can talk about it later if you want to. But if you want an abortion, that’s okay.”

“That’s my only option,” Brock says. He doesn’t give a shit whether it’s okay with Jack or not.

“It’s not. I think we could swing this,” Jack says.

Small gusts of wind are whipping against the sides of the tent, sighing through the trees. There’s a small rumble of thunder in the distance. Brock is silent as Jack’s hand comes to rest on his belly. His hormones are still a mess from the heat, so he’s not surprised by the tears that suddenly prick his eyes.

“I don’t think so,” Brock says, blinking rapidly. “But you'd be a good daddy.”

Jack rubs circles against Brock’s lower abdomen and kisses the back of his head. “Think about it, okay?”

Brock squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. All the potential consequences of a pregnancy are overwhelming in their enormity. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Brock rolls over to face Jack, nuzzling against his chest. They’re a bonded pair now and Brock finds himself taking great comfort in Jack’s warmth and scent. Brock falls asleep to the sound of rain pattering against the tent.

* * *

Brock wakes up wet and angry. At first he thinks that the tent leaked in the night, but the source of wetness isn't from outside. He doesn't smell the blood until he throws back the blanket.

“Shit,” he says. The dull ache in his uterus is threatening to tighten into a nasty cramp.

“What?” Jack murmurs, still mostly asleep.

It’s hard to see in the dim light, but Brock can tell that he’s bled through his fatigues and stained their sleeping bags. He neglected to put another pad in his underwear the night before, not thinking he’d start bleeding so soon.

“I’m bleeding,” Brock says.

That gets Jack’s attention. He sits up, worry coloring his tired face. His legs were intertwined with Brock’s and there’s even a bit of blood on his own pants.

“Fuck,” he says. “Your slit?”

Brock nods, wincing from the cramp lancing through him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby,” Jack says. He’s looking around, maybe not entirely convinced.

Brock is cramping so badly that he can barely focus on Jack’s words. He’s awash with alternating waves of hot and cold, suddenly nauseous. Brock lays back down with a pained groan. He feels like he fucked up.

“Is this… Is this a miscarriage?” Jack asks, concerned. “How can you bleed so much this early?”

Brock doesn’t have the courage to tell Jack the truth. “I don’t know,” he lies, curling in on himself.

“Okay, okay.” Jack sounds like he’s talking to himself at first. “Okay, I’m gonna call for an early extraction. Don’t freak out, but you don’t look good.”

“I don’t feel good, either,” Brock admits.

“Cramping?”

“Yeah, bad.”

Jack must be worried, because he leaves the tent rather than sticking around to comfort Brock. He lays there—dizzy and sick and hurting—until Jack returns.

“We’re tearing down and packing up. They’ll be here in a less than an hour,” he says. There’s an edge of urgency in his voice.

“Well, fuck,” Brock says, trying to sit up.

He’s both impressed and embarrassed by all the concessions everyone is making for him. Despite the blood loss, it hasn’t sunk in how serious this could be. Heaving himself up on his elbows makes his head spin.

“Medic wants to check you out,” Jack says. “I’m gonna help you up.”

Brock protests with all his usual gripes. He doesn’t want to be looked over. But when Jack pulls him upright and guides him out of the tent, he vomits. His stomach is empty, so all that comes up is frothy bile. Everyone is staring in concern as their medic, a mild-mannered beta, comes over to them. He and Jack lay Brock out on a sleeping bag while the rest of them rush to break camp.

Brock folds his arms over his face, feeling useless. The medic checks him over, but the most he can do is give Brock some pain medication and stick a disposable heat wrap onto his lower belly. His cramps are so severe that the warmth doesn’t do much for them. Brock dry heaves several times.

He’s weak and shaky when Jack helps him to his feet again. Brock has to lean against the taller man to stay upright.

“I know you’re fucked up, but we gotta go,” Jack says. He keeps his voice down so Brock won’t be further humiliated. “Can you walk?”

“I wanna try,” Brock says.

It’s a rainy and chilly morning, so Jack helps Brock pull on a jacket before slipping the straps of his backpack over his shoulders.

Brock feels suddenly despondent, no doubt at the mercy of his unbalanced hormones. “I’m so sorry about your sleeping bag, man,” he says.

“Brock, don’t worry about it,” Jack reassures. “Not your fault.”

Jack keeps hold of Brock’s upper arm, steadying him as they walk. Brock is lightheaded and has to stop several times to retch. Since he’s second-in-command, Jack takes over leadership duties as the team makes their way down the ridge. Not many orders have to be given, but Brock is completely incapable of leading at the moment.

There’s still a feeling of heaviness between Brock’s legs, but it’s different. Cramping. Pressure. Clots of blood. He’s pale and sweating when they make it to the field where the helicopter dropped them off two days prior. He hears the chopper before he sees it, a dull thumping of rotors against the damp air.

Brock is distant when he speaks. “This didn’t happen the last time.”

Jack looks at him, confused. Brock feels himself fall into the tall grass. His vision is swimming as Jack yells his name over the increasing roar of the helicopter. Then everything goes black and quiet.


	5. May 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update! I've had this scene in my head for a long time, so it pretty much wrote itself. It was a really organic, enjoyable experience. I hope you all like it.

“Hey, hey, just relax. It’s okay.”

Brock listens to Jack’s voice as he resurfaces from the depths of unconsciousness. He blinks a few times, squinting against the bright lights that are shining in his eyes. He is lying in an unfamiliar bed, stripped of all his gear and tactical clothing.

Brock is confused. “Where…?” he starts to ask.

“We’re back at the Trisk, in the infirmary. You passed out,” Jack says.

Brock vaguely remembers falling in the grass, but nothing else. The loss of time and memory is disconcerting. He’s not in any pain, nor does he feel particularly nervous. If the IV needle in his hand is any indication, he is no doubt dosed up with medications to keep him physically and mentally comfortable.

“What happened to me?” he asks.

“They ran some blood work and your hormones are really out of whack,” Jack says, reaching up to smooth back Brock’s hair. “Real dehydrated too.”

Brock licks his lips, nodding. He’s incredibly tired. He turns his head to watch Jack sit back down in the chair he’s probably been keeping vigil in. Jack scoots the chair closer to the bed.

“I gotta talk to you about something, though.” Jack puts his hand on Brock’s arm. “The doctor said that they found two artificial hormones in your blood. One is from your suppressant shot. But the other one is normally used in those emergency contraceptive pills. Did you take one of those?”

Brock swallows thickly. The spit in his mouth is stale and sticky. “I found one in my backpack last night,” he says. “Jack, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Jack says. “I just wish you woulda told me, baby. I was so worried.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t. I just didn’t expect to get so sick or bleed so bad,” Brock tries to explain.

“They say it was a combination of everything that happened. Taking suppressant shots for years. The shot not sticking. The bad heat. The emergency contraception. All that stress and all those hormones really fucked you up,” Jack says.

Brock looks at his hands. He examines the pulse oximeter clipped to his fingertip, the IV needle taped to the top of his hand, and the hospital bracelet on his wrist. “I’m not pregnant, right?” he asks.

Jack gives a little sigh. “They’re certain that you had a small miscarriage. But they wanna give you a pelvic exam and have you take a test in a few days just in case,” he says.

“Okay,” Brock says. “Good.”

“Good,” Jack repeats, but the agreement is hollow.

“I just wonder what kinda trouble I’m in,” Brock says.

Jack shrugs. “The higher ups were just mostly worried about your health,” he says. “I’m sure they’ll wanna talk to you. When you’re feeling better, though.”

Brock turns to Jack. “Do you understand why I did this?” he asks.

Jack doesn’t look at him. His eyes are on the tile floor. He looks tired and wounded, but his answer is one of acceptance. “Yeah. I do.”

“I know I hurt you,” Brock says. “And I’m sorry.”

Jack gives a little shake of his head. “Do I wanna have a family with you? Yes. But am I gonna force you? No. It’s your body. I know you love your job and I know you don’t wanna have kids,” he says.

“You should be with somebody who can give that to you,” Brock says, fiddling with the plastic bracelet he has on. “You deserve that, Jack.”

“But I love you.”

Brock closes his eyes for a moment. The guilt he feels is immense. “I love you too. But I’m fuckin’ old. My eggs are probably going bad. And even if everything worked out—I wouldn’t be a good mom,” he says.

“Why do you always talk shit about yourself?” Jack asks, sounding frustrated. “I watch you constantly mother that group of assholes you lead. It’s in your genes, Brock.”

Brock is about to respond when there’s a knock on the door. A female doctor steps in. “Is this an okay time for your pelvic exam?” she asks. “I’m just making the rounds.”

Brock looks to Jack, then at the doctor. “Sure,” he says.

Brock has only had a few of these exams in his life, but they’ve all been unpleasant. The doctor seems nice enough as she introduces herself. But Brock is a bit nervous as he watches her ready the supplies that have already been set out for her.

“You sure I’m not too much of a mess down there?” he asks.

“Oh no, we’ll be fine,” she says, looking at his file. “Has anyone talked to you about the extra hormones we found in your blood work?”

“We discussed it,” he says, looking at Jack again. “I did take one of those emergency contraception pills.”

The doctor nods as she makes note of it in her charts. Brock has to sit there while the doctor explains everything that Jack already told him. He feels like he’s being talked down to somehow. She tells him why taking the pill was a bad idea, as if he didn’t already know that.

“I’m sure you can understand why I was feeling desperate,” Brock finally quips.

“Do you want him here for the examination?” the doctor asks, nodding toward Jack.

“Yes,” Brock answers automatically. Jack is his mate now. 

The doctor instructs him to throw back the blankets and scoot to the foot of the bed. She unfolds obstetric stirrups from under the bed. Brock’s pulse quickens. He doesn’t have any fond memories associated with these contraptions.

“Slip your legs into these for me,” the doctor says.

Brock is dressed in only a hospital gown and has no underwear on. His most intimate areas are lewdly displayed in the position asked of him. The doctor runs the metal speculum under hot water to warm it, then slicks it with lubricant. She turns on a bright surgical light before she sits down between Brock’s splayed legs.

“Hold my hand,” Brock says quietly.

Jack looks concerned as he twines their fingers together. Brock feels a gloved hand against his inner thigh and he flinches.

“Just me,” the doctor says, patting him gently. “We gave you some medication to help with anxiety, so you shouldn’t be too tense down here. Is it okay if I start?”

Brock has to force himself to give consent. She begins with a simple external examination, spreading the lips of his slit.

“Wow, that’s quite an episiotomy scar,” the doctor says. “Your file says you have some nerve damage.”

Brock stares in disbelief. His heart is beating in dull, painful thumps. That information is protected by a Level 8 security clearance. He didn’t know it was in his general medical files. Jack looks at him questioningly, but says nothing.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he says. It’s the truth. He’s under a strict gag order.

“Oh, that’s all right. You can discuss it with me,” she says. “I’ve been briefed on Operation Mother Wolf.”

Brock can feel Jack’s eyes on him. He’s still holding Brock’s hand, but his whole body has gone rigid. Brock is in a state of complete shock. A secret he was planning on taking to his grave has just been thrown out in the open and shoved in the face of the one person he didn’t want to know about it.

“How badly does the loss of sensation affect your sex life?” the doctor asks.

“I manage,” Brock says stiffly.

The doctor picks up the speculum. “You’re gonna feel some pressure. Just try to relax.”

It’s impossible. Brock growls in pain as the metal device is pressed into his slit and then ratcheted open, exposing all his inner workings. He squeezes Jack’s hand, but he doesn’t squeeze back. Brock is too afraid to look at him.

“Ow…” Brock groans.

“You’ve got wonderful muscle tone. Nice parous cervix, too,” the doctor says. “Just ease up for me, honey.”

It takes all of Brock’s concentration to force his slit to relax. It feels like he is being pinched and pulled apart at the same time. He’s relieved when the doctor gets the samples she needs and closes the speculum, gently pulling it out of his body.

“Now I’m gonna put a finger in you and press on your tummy, okay?”

Brock nods. The bimanual examination is never as bad as the speculum. The doctor presses a finger inside his slit while palpating his uterus from the outside. Brock winces and the doctor notes the tenderness in his lower abdomen.

“There’s still some bleeding, which is normal given the circumstances. Otherwise everything looks okay,” the doctor says. “Once it clears up, give yourself another suppressant shot to get your cycle back on track.”

The silence that follows the doctor’s departure is agonizing. Brock wants to scream or curse or hit something. Instead he lays there, feeling violated and humiliated by all that’s transpired.

Jack is still holding Brock’s hand when he speaks. “An episiotomy? That’s something they do… when you have a baby, right?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Brock says flatly.

“What was Operation Mother Wolf?” Jack asks.

“You’re Level 7. I can’t tell you.”

Jack turns to him. “Look at me,” he demands.

Brock tears his unfocused eyes away from the wall. It pains him to meet Jack’s gaze. The man’s eyes are full of many emotions, none of them good.

“You tell me what the fuck happened to you or I’m leaving. For good,” Jack says.

Brock knows that Jack means what he says. He’s really not supposed to share this information with Jack, but he feels like he has no choice. Jack already knows part of it anyway. Brock rubs at his face with his free hand.

“When I first joined HYDRA, I was chosen for a breeding program. It was called Operation Mother Wolf,” Brock explains. His throat has grown tight. “HYDRA wanted more super soldiers, so they had me and a few other omegas mate with the Winter Soldier.”

Jack is silent. Brock has never seen such a look of horror and pity on his face. Despite this, Brock keeps talking. It’s like he can’t stop now that he’s started.

“I had a baby in 1989. A little boy. They took him away from me and I haven’t seen him since,” he says.

Jack’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Jesus, Brock. I am so sorry.”

“Thought it would be easy money.” Brock laughs bitterly. “How stupid is that?”

“No, no… You were what, in your twenties? You were just young and dumb. They exploited that. It's not your fault,” Jack says.

“The whole time I was pregnant, I didn't think it was a big deal. Then when I saw him—” Brock's voice breaks. “—I wanted him more than anything.”

“Of course you did,” Jack says, rubbing Brock’s thigh. His voice is full of sympathy. “You said they took him away?”

Brock’s eyes are fixed on the wall again. He feels haunted. “They never let me hold him. But they made me pump milk for him. I just had a baby, so I was lactating and—”

Suddenly Brock is wrapped in Jack’s arms, strong and protective around him. His scent is comforting, as is the hand stroking the back of his head. But Brock doesn’t let himself cry. Instead, he shakes.

“—they made me—”

“Okay, okay,” Jack soothes. “Shhh.”

Brock clings to Jack in an effort to stop trembling. All those years ago, he made a stupid decision that still affects his life two decades later. Not only are there repercussions for him, but there are also ones for Jack now too. A drop in the ocean, but so many ripples. He made a conscious decision to bring another human being into this world and then immediately gave it up to HYDRA. A newborn baby, who had no choice in the matter. Because of this, Brock knows that he’s not any better than the rest of them.

And he hates himself for it.


	6. May 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for a lack of regular updates. I really struggled with this chapter. A huge thank you to my omega Brock buddy [weirdlet](http://www.weirdlet.tumblr.com) for talking shop with me while I puttered through this one. You're a gem!

Brock is discharged at the end of the day. He's still cramping, but the pain is nowhere near as intense as it was. Jack leaves Brock's side only to get him a change of clothes, and Brock sits on the edge of the hospital bed to pull on the loose t-shirt and sweatpants. The pair of mesh hospital underwear with the postpartum pad inside feels like a diaper, but Brock leaves them on because he's still bleeding.

"I want you to come to my place," Jack says.

Brock leans down to tie his sneakers. "I really don't feel like hanging out."

"We're not gonna hang out. You're gonna rest and I'm gonna keep an eye on you."

"I'm just gonna sleep,” Brock says dismissively.

"Then sleep in my bed," Jack says. "Please?"

Brock doesn't have the energy to argue. It's a long walk from the Triskelion's infirmary to the on-site housing, and Brock is ready to fall into bed before Jack is even keyed into his place. The small apartment is nearly identical to the one Brock stays in between missions. Unlike the other officers, Brock has no other permanent residence. He is already making his way toward the bedroom in the back.

“Are you hungry?” Jack asks.

“I told you I’m gonna sleep,” Brock responds.

Jack follows him into the bedroom and pulls back the covers for him. Brock has been in Jack’s bed many times, but never just to sleep. He kicks off his shoes and curls up in the area Jack uncovered.

“Okay, you sleep,” Jack says, pulling up the blankets and tucking them around Brock’s shoulders. “I’m gonna come check on you later.”

Brock gives an affirmative grunt. But before Jack leaves, he speaks. “Hey, Jack?”

“Yeah, baby.”

“Thanks.”

Jack leans down and presses a kiss to Brock’s veiny temple. “You’re welcome,” he says, and there’s a hint of a low alpha purr at the end of the sentence.

Brock is cursing internally when Jack leaves the room. Jack _purred_ at him. Barely, but it was there. People usually only purr at mates and babies. Does that mean they’re a bonded pair? He told that stupid doctor that Jack was his mate, but… Brock is too exhausted to think it over. He’s comforted by Jack's scent on the sheets, and quickly falls asleep under the heavy, warm blanket.

Brock sleeps and sleeps. He barely stirs when Jack comes to check on him that afternoon and doesn’t notice when Jack climbs into bed with him to sleep for the night. When Brock wakes up, he’s alone in the bed again. He rolls over to look at the clock on Jack’s nightstand. It’s 4:30. In the afternoon. He’s slept almost 18 hours. His uterus isn’t tight with cramps anymore, but he still feels like garbage otherwise.

Jack is on the couch, watching TV, when Brock walks out of the bedroom.

“Hey,” Jack says. “You feel okay?”

Brock nods. “Okay if I shower?”

“You don’t gotta ask, Brock.”

He feels weak and shaky when he goes into the bathroom and cranks on the shower, but he puts it down to the stress he’s been dealing with. His bag from the infirmary is on the floor, placed there by Jack. Brock tells himself that the alpha wasn’t being thoughtful, just logical.

Brock is always amazed at how good a shower can make him feel. A spray down after a mission is a necessary ritual, although he’s never been allowed the traditional locker room experience. But here and now, the water pressure is decent and the water feels good drumming on his shoulders. He scrubs the mission funk and dried sweat off his skin, soaps away the bloody mess between his legs. But he doesn’t feel quite human until he works a dab of shampoo into his hair.

He resigns himself to putting on another pair of disposable hospital underwear with a huge, absorbent pad in the crotch. The frumpy feeling the garment provides is nothing more than a reminder of what he went through—what he’s still going through.

He pulls on his t-shirt and sweatpants again, then ventures back into the livingroom. Jack pats the spot next to him on the couch. Brock feels awkward as he sits down, but he’s not sure why. Nothing has changed between the revelation in the infirmary and now. Jack knows his deep, dark secret and he still touches the back of Brock’s neck with tenderness.

“A bunch of the higher-ups want to see us tomorrow,” he says.

Brock sighs. He knew this was going to happen, but his chest tightens with anxiety all the same. “What time?”

“0900,” Jack says. “They sent an email out.”

The rest of the information will be there, Brock knows. He doesn’t have the heart to ask exactly who they will be facing or if the entire STRIKE Team will be present. Brock truly dreads the answers. Perhaps if he doesn’t know, then he can’t properly worry about it.

“I suppose I’m gonna be losing my job.”

Jack makes a noise of dissent. “That’s not what’s gonna happen.”

“And how do you know?”

“Because you’re valuable. They’re not gonna get rid of you.”

“But I’m gonna get punished.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Jack says.

“Jack, the omega is always in the wrong.”

“I don’t think it’s good to walk into this already defeated,” Jack says with a sigh. “You’ll be able to tell them your side of the story.”

“My side isn’t important. All they’re gonna hear is that an omega in a leadership position fucked up, and I’m gonna get the book thrown at me,” Brock says.

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. He looks weary. “I don’t wanna argue.”

“I’m not arguing,” Brock protests.

Jack lets out a laugh, no doubt because his point has been proven. Brock is sullen as Jack continues to stroke the back of his neck. He doesn’t feel like Jack is taking him seriously.

“Are you hungry?” Jack asks.

Brock shrugs, even though he’s starving. “I could eat.”

“I’m making pancakes,” Jack says, patting Brock’s knee as he gets up from the couch.

Brock doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, and he’s normally not one to indulge in comfort food. But it’s amusing to watch Jack make the pancakes, and they end up really hitting the spot. Brock can’t truly enjoy the meal for worrying about the next day or the wetness between his legs. He’s restless.

“I want you to spend the night with me again,” Jack says.

Brock uses his fork to push around a piece of pancake, gathering syrup on it. “I can’t. I gotta do laundry. Sleep in my own bed.”

Jack frowns. “You don’t gotta do this on your own, Brock.”

The alpha’s kindness and sympathy never fail to catch Brock off guard. The one thing every omega wants is laid out in front of him—an understanding, attentive alpha who wants to have children the worst way in the world—and he doesn’t know how to react. Brock gives a little sigh.

“I know, and I appreciate it. I’m just going through absolute hell right now and I don’t know what to do,” Brock says. “I’m not going anywhere. I just have to figure this out.”

“I’m not going anywhere either,” Jack says.

And he means it, because he shows up at Brock’s door the next morning and they walk to the meeting together. Brock read the email only to confirm the time and place, and laid awake thinking of how to properly explain his side of the story. Not like he thinks it will matter.

A long table is set up in one of the debriefing rooms, and a few rows of chairs are lined before it. Other members of the STRIKE Team are filing in as Brock and Jack sit down a few seats away from each other. It’s obvious that the entire team has been ordered to attend, and several of Brock’s men come up to him and ask him if he’s doing okay.

But the quiet chatter stops when some different men enter the room. One is Agent John Garrett, the man who oversees the STRIKE Team operations. The other is none other than Secretary of Defense Alexander Pierce. Brock’s eyes are wide when he looks over at Jack.

Brock is so nervous that he feels dizzy as the debriefing commences. Garrett and Pierce sit down at the long table, accompanied by a secretary who will be taking notes. Brock has been reprimanded a few times in the past, but he’s never fucked up this badly. He has no idea what he’s in for.

Brock is seated among his team members, but he feels like he’s under a magnifying glass as the questions begin. Nearly every single one is directed at him and they’re all invasive. They ask him about his suppressant shots, and are particularly interested in the timeline of events that lead up to the training exercise.

“Why did you administer your suppressant shot late?” Garrett asks.

Brock’s eyes flick to the secretary taking notes, to the photocopies of his medical files that are plainly spread out on the table. He feels scrutinized. “We had just gotten back from an op,” he says carefully. “Suppressant shots have to be refrigerated, so I couldn’t give myself one while out in the field.”

“But you gave yourself one as soon as you could.”

“Yes. My shots have been late before and I’ve never had a problem.”

“But your timing was a problem this time around.”

Brock gives a single nod. “I went into heat.”

They make Brock recant the entire story. Getting assaulted by Kosinski. Mating with Jack in the woods. Taking the expired morning after pill. Becoming violently ill and ending up in the infirmary. They ask Jack, Kosinski, and the medic questions to corroborate Brock’s story. Neither Kosinski nor Jack will be disciplined for their separate acts of violence. Garrett’s only focus is Brock.

“I’m sure you can appreciate the seriousness of this situation, Agent Rumlow,” Garrett says. “Your leadership position was contingent on you keeping your urges in check. If you can't be responsible for your own body, how are you supposed to be responsible for an entire team of operatives?”

“I understand, sir,” Brock says.

“You will be demoted from your position of commander and transferred to STRIKE Team Delta until further notice,” Garrett says.

Brock’s throat runs dry. STRIKE Team Delta is the group assigned to assist the Winter Soldier, which is most likely why Secretary Pierce is present. At least it’s not because his pussy is a matter of national security.

“During the interim, Agent Rollins will be commander of STRIKE Team Bravo. You will receive briefing packets for your next mission as you leave,” Garrett says. “Meeting adjourned.”


	7. May 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's start the new year off right with another chapter! I'm sorry for the slow updates.

Brock is slow to stand from his chair and has to wait in line with the others to get his briefing packet before he can leave. Once he receives the thick manilla envelope, his instinct is to run. Instead, he stands in the hallway and thumbs through it while the rest of his team files out of the meeting room. A few stop to talk, mostly just to say that this turn of events is bullshit and they don't want him off their team. Despite being an omega leading a group of alphas and betas, Brock is well-liked. But that doesn't matter now.

When Jack comes out of the room, Brock turns to leave. There are sharp words on the tip of his tongue and he doesn't want to let them out of his mouth.

“I don't wanna talk,” Brock says. He's backing up and starting to walk away.

“Why? This is just temporary,” Jack says. “You didn't lose your job.”

“Yeah, I did. You have it now.”

Jack scowls. “It's not like I took it from you.”

“I lost it all on my own, right?” Brock's voice is full of more venom than he intends.

“That's not what I fuckin’ meant,” Jack says angrily. “I didn't want your job. This wasn't all part of some scheme to overthrow your rule as the special snowflake omega commander.”

Such an insult would normally cause Brock to throw a punch or start a screaming match, but he's shocked into silence. He feels like all his insides have been scooped out and he is hollow. He's hurt.

“I know,” he says, voice even. “Congrats on your promotion. I'll see ya around.”

Jack looks stricken by the sudden calmness of their conversation. He says Brock's name as he walks away. Brock does not turn around and Jack does not chase after him.

Brock is itching to punch a wall when he gets back to his apartment. Unfortunately, all the walls are cinderblock and would only leave him with a broken hand. He is still for a moment, then swipes everything off the small kitchen island with an angry yell. Now there's a huge mess, but he would rather focus on cleaning up than deal with the emotions he has right now.

Brock is lost. Over the next few weeks, he's aimless. The pregnancy test from the infirmary comes back negative, although Brock almost wishes it was positive just so he could escape his reassignment.

There's that selfishness that got your first one taken away, he thinks. Idiot.

Brock puts an incredible amount of energy into avoiding Jack. He changes his workout schedule to keep from bumping into him. Calls and texts from Jack go unanswered and unread. Brock doesn't feel the venomous fury he did before, but he simply wouldn't know what to say if they talked. And Jack doesn't come knocking, so Brock decides that the alpha doesn't care that much. There's nothing important to discuss. There's no baby.

Two weeks later, Brock reports to the STRIKE Team Delta mission briefing. He feels strange without a plan or intelligence in hand, but he's just an operative taking orders now. The room is full of men he's worked with, although he doesn't know any of them personally. He would mesh perfectly with this group of spec ops soldiers if it weren't for the rumors and reputation that preceded him. Being an omega doesn't help him blend in either.

“I smell fish,” one soldier says when Brock sits down in the back.

The two men sitting next to him laugh and Brock rolls his eyes. He's heard it all during his years in the military, so a lame joke about his slit stinking doesn't phase him. They'll settle down once the novelty wears off. He hopes. Brock isn't in a position to be commanding any respect.

The commander, a middle-aged man named Elliot, is straightforward and Brock is grateful for the lack of formal acknowledgement during the meeting. The mission seems to be nothing more than a standard assassination op. Simple enough, except they will be working around the Winter Soldier.

“We're at the end of our rotation for asset duty, so Rumlow will be taking him on for this mission,” Elliot says.

Some of the men look over their shoulders in amusement. Brock tries to seem impassive but fails, and his heart hammers against his ribs for the rest of the briefing. By the time they are given their orders and dismissed, Brock is dizzy with anxiety. He waits until everyone has filed out before approaching his new commander.

Brock doesn't know how to start the conversation, so he just says what is important. “I don't have any experience handling the asset.”

“You don't need experience. He literally has an instruction manual,” Elliot says dismissively.

“You don't understand—”

“You're the one who doesn't understand. I don't want you on my fucking team. You've got my men more interested in sloppy seconds than the upcoming mission,” Elliot says. “So the sooner you fuck off and get back to ST-Bravo, the better. Clear?”

It's been years, but Brock finds that he's still numb to the verbal abuse he endured while climbing ranks. He just lets the harassment wash over him, a tidal wave of slurs and condescension. It's a rip current that Brock no longer fights against.

“Crystal,” he says.

But Brock feels trapped. The job he loved has turned into a dangerous, unhealthy situation. He's pushed away the only person who has ever given a consistent fuck about him. And he's being forced to work closely with the father of the baby he tossed away over twenty years ago. It's too much to process.

Brock goes into survival mode. It's a mindset that has, in the past, helped him endure both combat and emotional trauma. He stops thinking or feeling and just runs on autopilot for the days leading up to the mission. It's a deliberate shutdown that brings on a semblance of peaceful control.

Brock's first job is to pick up the asset from his holding facility the day of the mission. It's early in the morning—still dark—when Brock arrives at the secret location deep under Washington, D.C. He is escorted through the high security facility by two armed soldiers, and has to show his credentials at several different checkpoints before he is allowed anywhere near the Winter Soldier.

Brock has always gotten a kick out of all the “spy stuff,” but his mind is elsewhere this morning. He can't believe that, in just a few minutes, he will be confronted with the man who impregnated him 21 years ago. He's reassured by the fact that it won't be a mutual reunion; the asset won't remember him. But it all seems like some sick joke, like the entire universe is punishing him for what he did all those years ago.

A tech meets Brock when he reaches the lab with his two chaperones. “He’ll be ready for you in a few minutes,” he says. “Just had him wiped.”

They are guided into a dark room where Brock is allowed to watch the process from behind a one-way mirror. The room on the other side of the glass is a brightly lit lab. The Winter Soldier is standing there half-naked, greasy brown hair hanging in his eyes. Two techs in smocks are helping him get dressed. Brock’s chest gets painfully tight at the sight of him. The alpha doesn’t seem to have aged a single day, thanks to being in cryosleep for the better part of the last two decades. However, something is off. The asset looks confused and unsteady on his feet; he's having trouble threading his arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket.

The poor bastard can’t even dress himself, Brock realizes.

“Look how fucking retarded he is,” one of the soldiers says.

His partner laughs, but Brock is silent. He can’t believe he feels bad for the asset. Is he even going to be of any use to them out in the field? Brock's thoughts are racing as he watches the techs fit the molded plastic muzzle over the lower half of the asset's scruffy face.

When he is dressed, a tech picks up a worn, red book from one of the surrounding tables. It looks out of place in the antiseptic environment of the lab, but the tech is casual as he thumbs through the yellowed pages.

_“Желание, ржавый, семнадцать, рассвет…”_

The asset shows the first sign of awareness Brock has seen. He furrows his eyebrows, as if he's confused.

_“…печь, девять, добросердечный…”_

Brock read about this in his handler packet, but it's still a sight to behold. As the tech continues on, the asset's entire demeanor changes. He gets tense, shoulders squared. His hollow gaze becomes sharpened. Soon, he will be ready for combat. And once the mission is complete, there is another set of trigger words that will return the asset to his distant, more docile state prior to placement in cryosleep.

When they're done, the techs turn him over to Brock and the two armed guards. Brock somehow remembers the first scrap of protocol he's supposed to follow.

“I'm Agent Rumlow. I'll be your handler,” he says.

The asset's voice is muffled by his muzzle. “Ready to comply,” he says.

“We're departing at 0500, so we will head to the hangar now.”

Brock doesn't necessarily need to explain the plan to the asset, but he feels more comfortable talking to him like a regular person. Like maybe he can forget all the fucked up things that have happened to them both if he just pretends the asset is a fellow soldier and not a terrifying husk of what used to be a human being.

Brock is regarded coolly by his new team when they meet to gear up, but it's not like he's in the mood for any sort of the camaraderie he once enjoyed. He ushers the asset into the quinjet, sits down in the jump seat next to him, and belts in for what he imagines will be a long and awkward flight.

Brock is used to long haul flights, but he normally has people to talk to or mission plans he can look over. He doesn't even feel safe enough to tilt his head back and pass the time by sleeping. Brock is about to put his earbuds in to drown out the ambient chatter when someone makes a comment.

“Close your legs,” the man across from him says. “We can smell you.”

Brock is sitting with his knees slightly spread. He moves his legs apart just another inch and raises a middle finger. There's laughter and a couple of the guys intone a collective “oooh.” The man who taunted Brock—an alpha with an unpleasant scent—scowls.

“Look, I know you're fuckin’ fascinated by my slit, but I'm not in the fuckin’ mood,” Brock says.

“You omegas are always in the mood,” the man says, rocking his hips to mimic sex. “That's why you got demoted and kicked off your team, right?”

Brock rolls his eyes. There's nothing he could say or do to come out on top, and reacting to the abuse only invites more. Instead he presses his earbuds into his ears and listens to music while he reads over the care instructions for the asset.

He's read the packet a hundred times. The role of handler seems simple enough, but he still scours the pages that have been photocopied one too many times. It's like he's trying to glean some hidden meaning from it all. He has so many questions that the bulleted lists and notes from previous handlers cannot answer.

Brock knows that he's not in the right headspace for a mission. Normally he's out for blood on the way to the drop site, but he's just distracted and anxious. It's a dangerous state of mind to be in, and he might be concerned if he was with a group of people he cared about.


	8. July 1988

Brock is lying naked on a bare mattress that is zipped in a plastic cover. He's been in heat for three days. The techs have refused to let him shower, so he's stinking with fever sweat and pheromones. On top of that, he has to turn over his underwear every time he changes because the asset is made to sniff at the slick dried on the fabric. All of this is done in the hopes of piquing the alpha’s interest. 

Brock is too far gone to be scared or ashamed at this point. All he feels is the primal, aching desire to mate. His mind is like a pot of water that has been left to boil completely dry, leaving only the basic animal parts of his brain exposed at the bottom of his skull. The techs have given him drugs to prevent him from lapsing into heat sickness during the wait, so he’s left in a state of constant arousal and heightened senses. Even small stimuli, like a door closing down the hallway or the central air kicking on, is enough to make Brock want to tumble into an overstimulated frenzy.

He spends much of the three days under a blanket, a hand between his legs. Rubbing his slit helps with the aching, and they’ve allowed him to use a heating pad for any cramps. Sometimes he rolls onto his front and humps the bed until the plastic is slick and pleasant to rub against. The edge of the mattress is nice too. 

Brock is curled up under his blanket, caught between sleep and awareness, when the door opens near the end of the third day. He glares when he peeks out from under the fabric, certain that he’s being disturbed by another annoying tech. 

But it’s the asset who is standing in the doorway. The heavy steel door of the isolation room is closed behind him. Brock’s eyes are wide, body thrumming just from the sight of him. 

The asset is dressed only in a pair of fatigues and combat boots. The lower half of his face is obscured by a black muzzle. Brock vaguely remembers the techs telling him they would be “taking precautions” to prevent the asset from biting. The asset’s body language is neutral, but his gray eyes are bright. He tilts his chin upward, sniffing the air like a curious dog. 

He must catch a whiff of Brock’s now-familiar scent, because he moves across the room with a swiftness that shows his intent. Brock is both startled and aroused—trying to remember what the techs told him to do—as the asset climbs onto the bed. The blanket is twisted and too warm between them; Brock fumbles to move it out of the way. 

The techs warned him that the asset might pin him down or growl to show misplaced dominance. But there is none of that as they strip off their clothes. There is no warmth in the asset’s methodical actions, but there is also no cruelty. 

“I—I need you,” Brock finds himself babbling. “So bad. Please.” 

The asset says nothing as he pulls down his pants. He has on no underwear and his cock springs out of his open fly, heavy and hard. It’s an impressive dick, but Brock would be happy with anything at this point. 

The asset moves between Brock’s spread legs, using a knee to knock him wider. Brock relents, going limp and pliant beneath the man who is about to impregnate him. His slit is wet and engorged, ready for the taking. 

“Aaah!”

Brock can’t help the way he yelps when the asset pushes into him. His slit is relaxed for mating, but it’s still overwhelming to be stuffed with the asset’s cock all at once. Instead of being startled by Brock’s outburst, the asset gives a muffled groan. The penetration was brutish, but Brock is not in any pain as he lets his head fall back against the mattress. He feels full and warm and pleasantly dazed. 

The asset braces himself with a hand on either side of Brock’s shoulders. His head is bowed, face obscured by both his mask and long brown hair, as he starts to thrust. Brock gasps sharply. His body moves of its own volition, hips bucking upward to meet with the asset’s. The alpha doesn’t seem disturbed by any of the movement or noises below him. His pace is measured and steady and unbothered. He is an animal rutting rather than a man making love. 

Brock squirms beneath the asset, already close to coming. His slit is tense around the asset’s cock, muscles wound tight like springs. In response, the asset starts to rock his hips a little faster and a little harder. His dark eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. Brock can hear himself sobbing nonsense, but feels helpless to stop it. All of this is happening so fast. 

The asset is curled around him, huffing through his muzzle. Brock cries out when he feels the asset come inside him. The thick, warm fluid makes Brock's slit clamp down on the asset's cock. 

“Oh, God—! Oh, God—!” 

Brock is panting and shaking from the orgasm caused by the powerful muscle contractions. The asset thrusts until Brock is too tight, then collapses on top of him with a soft grunt. Brock is too hazy-headed and tired to care about being squashed underneath the Winter Soldier, instead focusing on the sensation of his slit twitching around his softening cock. 

He thinks the hard part is over.


	9. June 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really been struggling with this story and I'm so worried that it's not my best writing. But I worked really hard and I hope that you like it. I made a commitment to post at least one chapter a month and I missed my February deadline by nine friggin' minutes! But anyway, here it is. :)

What was supposed to be a standard assassination op turns into several weeks of toil. They have been at the mercy of bad intel, bad weather, and bad timing. Brock spends many days laying on rooftops in the rain, acting as the asset's spotter as he tries to get a visual on their target. Meanwhile, the rest of the team is nice and dry inside the different stake out locations.

Brock is soggy and shivering and miserable most of the time; their rain ponchos only provide so much protection. He doesn't complain, however. Not only is there no one to bitch at, he's also a highly trained spec ops soldier and is fairly used to dealing with a wide range of discomforts.

Something is off, though. Brock is exhausted. Being tired is normal in situations like this, but he can't escape the fatigue that makes him want to close his eyes when he should be watching for their target instead. Thankfully, he never actually nods off. He’s already on Elliot’s shit list as it is.

Each night, the team returns to their safe house to eat and sleep and discuss the plan for the next day. Brock makes sure the asset eats, takes his medications, and is otherwise “operational.” Dispensing the asset’s drugs feels like a full-time job all on its own. The asset needs medication morning, noon, and night. The handler packet lists the medications and what they’re for, but Brock doesn’t care. The pills are pre-sorted and organized by the techs, so he just dumps them in the asset’s hand and tells him to take them with sip of water when he’s supposed to.

Aside from his focus on mission-related tasks, the asset is distant. He doesn’t participate in conversations and only speaks when he’s directly addressed. Any response comes out flat and neutral—almost disinterested. Which is fine with Brock because he’s not interested in conversation with anyone.

He tries to keep to himself as best he can, no matter what anyone says to him. The rude comments and jibes are constant. That’s why lying on a rooftop in the pouring rain all day is preferable to the relative comfort of the safe house.

“So are you and the asset gonna fuck or what?” one of his teammates asks when they’re bedding down that night.

The alphas and betas are grouped on one side of the room, rolling out their sleeping bags. MREs have been eaten and a few beers have been drank, despite it being against the rules.

Brock says nothing, focused on giving the asset his bedtime medication. They sleep on the other side of the room, behind a corner that provides the lone omega with a false sense of privacy and protection.

“You know, I bet that’s what they’re doing on those rooftops during the day,” a beta says. “That’s why we’ve been stuck out here for two weeks.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Brock finally says, closing up the container that holds the asset’s numerous pills.

The rest of the team snickers like Brock’s response was funny. He supposes he gave them the reaction they wanted.

Brock isn’t particularly sensitive. He’s spent many years in the military and doesn't mind the inevitable teasing and shit talk when it’s all in good fun. However, there is malice behind these comments. That doesn’t mean they hurt Brock’s feelings, but they certainly put him on edge.

He’s grateful for the eventual comfort of his sleeping bag and the darkness of lights out. Once the asset is zipped into his own bedroll, Brock is able to settle in. The quiet is nice, although one of the alpha assholes snores like a motherfucker. That’s what earplugs are for, though. They are one of the many essentials that Brock never deploys without.

Despite the fatigue that causes him to fall asleep almost instantly, he has trouble staying that way. He awakens long before anyone else does. Rather than toss and turn and try to catch another hour or two, he gets up and uses the extra time to shower in peace and enjoy some fucking silence. Brock would normally shower _after_ a day out in the field. However, he’s not allowed to bathe with the rest of the team, and there is never any hot water left by the time they’re finished in the evening.

But if Brock is anything, he’s adaptable. The shower feels good, although he’s nauseous this morning as he stands under the spray. Normally he will sit in the safe house’s kitchen and have some coffee afterward, but even that turns his stomach. He opts for water and crackers instead, all the while wondering why he feels sick.

The kitchen is dark, illuminated only by the light over the sink. Brock nibbles on the saltines in between sips of water while he thinks about how badly this place needs a deep clean. In his peripheral vision, there is a shadow in the doorway. Brock nearly jumps out of his skin, reaching to his thigh for a gun that isn’t strapped there at the moment.

It’s just the asset.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, kid,” Brock says, mouth dry from the piece of cracker in it. “You scared me.”

The asset just stands there, metal arm glinting in the dim light.

“Why are you up?” Brock asks.

“I woke up and you weren’t in your sleeping bag,” the asset answers. As if that logically explains him getting up and searching for Brock.

Brock takes a sip of water. “I can’t sleep,” he says. “Do you need anything?”

“Water.”

Brock gestures to the sink. He eats a few more crackers while the asset pours himself a glass of water and brings it back to the table. Brock hates himself for it, but he can’t deny that he still finds the asset attractive. His shaggy hair is tousled from sleep and his gray eyes don’t hold the coldness they usually do. He looks weary, which Brock can relate to.

“So you can’t sleep either?” Brock asks.

The asset shrugs and the metal plates that make up his left shoulder whirr quietly. “We’re supposed to stick together.”

“Any particular reason why?” Brock asks with a frown. This isn't exactly normal behavior for the asset.

The asset’s brow furrows. He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s trying to prepare an answer. “You smell pregnant,” he says.

Brock’s eyes go wide, heart suddenly bounding in his chest. There’s no fucking way. The asset has to be smelling leftover scent from his bleed. “I… had a miscarriage… recently…” he finally manages to say. “That’s probably why.”

“Oh.”

Brock has to take a few deep breaths to calm his upset stomach. He feels like he's going to throw up. “Anyway, I don’t need any extra protection from you on this mission,” he says. “Are we clear?”

The asset nods. “Clear.”

The rest of the day goes better than Brock expected. The clouds remain, but the rain has stopped. Which means that he and the asset are dry as they set up a vantage point on a rooftop. They have word that their target will be in a certain place at a certain time, and finally the intel is good. The asset is silent and unaffected, but Brock is nearly quivering with excitement when they get a clear visual of their target through a window across the street. They’re within close enough range that the asset doesn’t need much help from a spotter, so Brock keeps the rest of the team updated via radio.

Brock feels a twinge of arousal watching the asset line up the shot. It's not an urge he's going to act on beyond fucking himself silly with his favorite vibrator once he gets stateside. But the asset looks good laid out prone on the roof, the stock of his sniper rifle tucked against his shoulder.

The shot is clean and they leave their vantage point unnoticed. Elliot reports the kill to their superiors, who arrange for an extraction late that night.

The rest of the team decides to celebrate by drinking. A couple of the guys go out and buy a bunch of cheap beer from the nearest corner store and bring it back to the safe house. Alcohol on a mission, regardless of whether it's been completed, is something Brock has never allowed as a CO. He’s known for making his men pour out smuggled booze. But Brock isn't in a position to be ordering anyone around.

Instead he focuses on packing up his gear. The asset remains close by, cleaning his sniper rifle. But he's growing increasingly distracted by the rest of the team being loud and obnoxious. Brock keeps catching glimpses of the asset watching them.

“Too loud?” Brock finally asks him.

“No,” the asset says. “You're not going to celebrate?”

“I don't drink much,” Brock says.

The asset gives a small nod and focuses on his rifle again. Now that Brock is thinking about it, a beer does sound kind of good. Just one won't be enough to make him belligerent—the reason why he doesn’t party anymore.

“Hey, Elliot,” he says. “Toss me one?”

There's a lull in the boisterous conversation as Elliot picks up a can of beer. Everyone is watching. He very deliberately shakes the can before throwing it to Brock.

Brock is pissed before he even catches the cold can in his hands. It's wet with condensation, but he gets a good grip on it before hurling it back with all his might. Elliot ducks and the can hits the wall behind him, exploding in a frothy mess that soaks a few of the crew.

“That's real fucking cute,” Elliot says.

Brock can't hold back anymore. “You shook it, you stupid prick.”

“Why don't you come over here and get another?”

It's a taunt and Brock takes the bait. He wants a fucking beer and he's mad that they're keeping him from one just to be petty. So Brock marches across the room with every intention of getting himself a beer without anyone doing a damn thing about it. He snarls when Elliot gets in his way.

“You told me to come over here, so here I am,” Brock hisses.

Elliot shoves him hard but Brock springs forward on his heels and starts swinging. All his pent up anger comes spilling out and he's heedless of the hands on him until Elliot begins to scream. The asset is behind him, twisting his arm behind his back.

“My arm! He's got my fucking arm!” Elliot yells.

The rest of the team is reluctant to do anything about it, despite their CO’s obvious pain and terror. They don't want to get between the asset and his chosen victim.

“Asset! Release!” Brock commands.

The asset's teeth are bared, eyes sharp with malevolence. Brock is scared; he wonders if the asset has snapped and is going to kill them all.

“He's going to break it,” Elliot practically sobs.

Brock reaches into his pocket and pulls out an autoinjector containing a strong sedative. The techs told him to keep it on him at all times, but to only use it when absolutely necessary. Brock decides that time is now. He jabs the needle into the asset’s outer thigh. As if in response, the asset growls and gives Elliot’s arm a final, vicious twist. The bone snaps and Elliot howls in pain.

Brock pulls the asset away while the rest of the team works to gather Elliot. The asset is already unsteady on his feet and confused from the tranquilizers. Brock guides him over to where they've been sleeping and helps him lay down on the floor in a clumsy heap.

“Hey, hey... Calm down, shhh…” Brock whispers, kneeling next to him. “You're just gonna go to sleep, yeah?”

The asset looks up at him with bleary eyes. “Was I bad?” he asks.

It's such a sad, pathetic question that Brock just wants to cry. “No, you weren't bad,” he says, brushing back the asset's hair. “Why did you do that?”

“I was protecting you.”


	10. June 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to include some more Agent Garrett because I miss Bill Paxton so damn much.

Due to Elliot’s injury, their extraction is bumped up and they are out of the safe house within the next hour. It’s utter chaos, but Brock is just grateful the focus is no longer on him. He has dealt with casualties involving mangled limbs and eviscerations, so Elliot’s broken arm is nothing to panic over. Yet Elliot still carries on while the medic splints it. The rest of the team is preoccupied with their injured CO, which leaves Brock free to load the asset onto the quinjet without any fuss.

Brock helps him lay on the floor of the aircraft, away from the jump seats where everyone else will be piling in. The asset murmurs incoherently as Brock zipties his ankles and wrists together. The plastic bindings won’t be enough to hold him if he is determined to escape or maim someone, but they will keep him wrangled in his currently drugged state. 

Brock stays sitting on the floor with the asset, keeping him calm while the quinjet powers on. It’s loud enough that he can mostly ignore the rest of the team’s grumblings as they belt in for the flight home. 

“I want him kept sedated,” Elliot snarls over the oppressively loud hum of the four repulsor engines. 

Brock looks over his shoulder. It’s hard to take Elliot seriously when he can’t even put his seatbelt on without assistance. “The tranquilizer will keep him docile until we’re stateside,” he says evenly. 

“And what the fuck was that, by the way?” Elliot continues. “Does the asset think you’re his mate or some shit?” 

Brock rolls his eyes and turns away. “The asset is doped up on alpha suppressants. He’s practically neutered with drugs.”

“I’m writing you up.” Elliot says this like it’s a fate worse than death. 

“Didn’t the asset break the arm you write with?” Brock asks.

Elliot yells in wordless fury and tries to unfasten the seatbelt he worked so hard to put on. The men next to him ease him back down. Elliot is pale and sweating and in obvious pain. Brock might feel bad for provoking him if it weren’t for him being such a massive dick for the entirety of this mission. 

Elliot barks at the medic for more pain medication and Brock turns his attention back to the asset. He supposes that getting written up again—twice in the span of a month—is inevitable. There’s nothing he can do about it at flight altitude.

The bickering has stirred the asset, who is staring at the ceiling with blank, half-lidded eyes. Brock places a hand on his chest as inconspicuously as possible. 

“You okay?” he asks quietly. 

“Tired.” 

The asset’s voice has a different quality to it somehow. It’s not roughness from thirst or unconsciousness. Brock doesn’t know how to explain it other than the asset doesn’t sound brainwashed and dead inside. He sounds like maybe the person he used to be. 

“Just rest,” Brock says. “Long flight.” 

The asset turns his head, gaze falling on Brock. Except he doesn’t look like the asset anymore. No, he looks more like Bucky Barnes. Brock knows he needs to back away and let the drugs put the asset back to sleep, but he feels cemented to the floor.

“He looks like you, you know,” the asset says, still speaking in that soft, matter-of-fact way. 

Brock’s throat is dry. “Who?” 

He already knows the answer and he doesn’t want to hear it. But this may be his only chance to have this conversation. 

“Max,” the asset says. “You have the same colored eyes.” 

Brock’s hands clench into fists on his thighs. He’s suddenly angry because he didn’t even get to name his own baby. “Shut up.” 

The asset licks his lips and looks to the ceiling again. He is on the verge of unconsciousness. “He’s a good kid,” he says, voice almost a whisper. 

“I said shut the fuck up!” Brock shouts. 

It’s the only part of the conversation anyone else has heard and Brock knows he looks crazy for it. The asset passes out and Brock just sits there trying to not bawl. His baby’s name is Max and they have the same honey-hazel eyes. Except he’s not a baby anymore. Barring any cruel pauses of his life caused by cryo, he should be 21 years old now. Brock somehow hurts worse than when he didn’t know anything about him at all. 

The cynical side of him wants to rationalize that the asset is high as fuck on horse tranquilizer and doesn’t know what he is talking about. But it’s too real, too specific, for Brock to deny. 

The asset only wakes a few more times during the flight, and he seems to be back to his usual spooky self. He only asks for water and makes no mention of what he said to Brock previously. Brock supposes that he doesn’t remember, and finds himself wishing that he didn’t either. 

It’s late when they arrive at the Triskelion. Instead of having to turn in his gear with the rest of the team, Brock completes his final task as asset handler. The techs come to retrieve the asset from the quinjet and Brock follows them to the lab to submit his mission report. They want to know all the details of the asset’s unprovoked attack. Brock answers every question truthfully. There’s no need to lie, as he doesn’t feel his handling of the asset was improper. Not to mention he doesn’t give a shit about Elliot’s well-deserved broken arm. 

Brock arrives at his apartment feeling like he should have said goodbye to the asset. It’s not like he had to the chance to, and he might not have taken it even if he did. He showers and falls into bed feeling empty. He tries to fill that void with his favorite vibrator. The orgasm is sharp and swift and he falls asleep grateful to be free of any stinking, snoring alphas. 

But he awakes nauseous the next morning. 

His stomach churns threateningly as he rolls out of bed and he barely has the toilet lid lifted when he vomits. All that comes up is the remnants of the last MRE he ate. It’s not uncommon to pick up an exotic stomach bug while on a mission, but this doesn’t add up to an illness. He felt nauseated the previous morning too.

The only time he’s felt sick like this was when he was pregnant. But that’s impossible. He bled and cramped and his body took care of it, right? He’s sitting on the bathroom floor, resting in between heaves, when his phone rings. He reaches to where it’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub; Jack’s name is on the screen. Brock answers it before he can come up with a reason not to. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey.” 

Jack seems surprised that Brock picked up. You and me both, buddy, Brock thinks. There’s a pause before Jack speaks again. 

“I heard the asset got a little wild on that mission. Are you okay?” 

Word travels fast in the Trisk. Especially exciting news like the asset maiming one of their own. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Brock says, swallowing down a gag. “He went after Elliot, not me.” 

“Jesus. Well, it’s good to hear from you.” 

Brock realizes that they haven’t spoken since they angrily parted ways in the hallway. It feels like that happened years ago and now, hearing Jack’s voice, Brock misses him. The way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, his uncanny thoughtfulness. 

“It’s good to hear from you too,” Brock says. He finds himself smiling a little, despite how sick he feels. “But hey, I gotta go.” 

“Oh.” Jack seems a little put out, but he is going to be listening to Brock vomit over the phone if he doesn’t hang up soon. “I’ll talk to you later?” 

“Yeah—” 

Brock feels bad for cutting things off so abruptly, but his imminent vomiting takes precedent. He is still sick when he showers and dresses for the day. The thought of food makes his stomach churn, but he forces himself to drink some water.

He’s nervous for the debriefing. As promised, Elliot has written him up. Agent Garrett eyes Brock with a mixture of disdain and disappointment when he sees the request for disciplinary action attached to the mission report Elliot prepared. 

“Looks like more trouble from you, Agent Rumlow,” Garrett says in his light Texas drawl. 

Brock says nothing but Elliot pipes up. “I want him off my fucking team.” 

Garrett’s expression darkens as he settles his gaze on Elliot. “There will be no talking out of turn in this room, Agent Elliot,” he says. 

“Sorry, sir.” 

“Shut it.” 

Garrett’s focus turns to the mission report. He begins asking all the usual questions, but most of his ire seems to land on Elliot. When they discuss the asset’s attack, Garrett’s interpretation is simple.

“Well, if you hadn’t been spoilin’ for a fight with Rumlow, I reckon your arm wouldn’t have gotten busted. Mighty foolish to assume the asset wouldn’t protect his little omega handler after two weeks out in the field,” he says. “The man’s an animal and easily attached, especially when they’re pretty.” 

Brock casts his eyes to the floor, embarrassed. But he’s grateful this isn’t being twisted into his fault. 

“I think there was inappropriate conduct,” Elliot says. 

“Are you referring to the drinking you allowed your men to engage in?” Garrett asks. 

Elliot is red in the face. “No—” 

“I’m tired of hearing about this. Agent Rumlow, I don’t believe you are a good fit for STRIKE Team Delta,” Garrett says. “Dismissed.” 

Everyone begins to file out of the room. Brock is wondering where he’ll be assigned next when Garrett says his name. 

“Sir,” Brock says, turning around. 

Garrett stands from the table at the front of the room and saunters over to where Brock is standing. Everyone is gone. Brock feels a noxious mix of fear and adoration for the man standing before him. Garrett turned Brock into the high-level HYDRA operative he is today. Recruiting omegas has been one of Garrett’s projects for many years. He knows how to make young outcasts feel special and turn that relationship into utter devotion. Almost 30 years after the fact and Brock isn’t completely free of that spell. 

The older man enters Brock’s personal space and he ignores the urge to move away. Brock remains still, even when Garrett reaches between his legs and cups his crotch. His hand is gentle but unwelcome all the same. 

“What’s the first thing I taught you, Brock?” 

Although Brock has no trouble remembering, words fail him. The grip on his genitals tightens but it doesn’t hurt. Garrett has never hurt him. Not sexually. 

“Remember, this pretty little slit between your legs is a weapon. Not a weakness,” Garrett says. 

Brock exhales shakily. He's ashamed that he's getting a bit wet. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good,” Garrett croons. 

He leans in closer and Brock silently panics from the thought of Garrett kissing him. Instead he moves his head to the side, sniffing at Brock's throat and behind his ear. 

“Pregnant omegas smell like fresh-baked bread. Sweet and yeasty. Most don't even notice the change because it's so subtle,” Garrett says. “Thought I caught a whiff and sure enough...”

Brock flinches when Garrett moves his hand to pat at his lower belly. 

“Come talk to me when you decide what to do,” Garrett says, walking toward the door. “We'll find a place for you.”

When Garrett is it out of the room, Brock lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His heart is pounding. The asset said he smelled pregnant, and now an alpha without a super soldier nose has told him the same thing. 

He took a pregnancy test after he bled, but it was only a urine test. The nurse in the infirmary told him the more accurate blood test wasn't necessary. Now Brock is thinking he needs a second opinion.


	11. June 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for any weird typos. Some of this was written on my phone.

After his encounter with Garrett, Brock almost walks directly to the infirmary for another pregnancy test. But he no longer wants to wager his privacy on a medical team that can't even determine whether or not he's actually pregnant. He only did it the last time because he had no choice. Maybe it would be smarter to go the more confidential route. 

Brock also wonders if he should tell Jack. He mulls it over while he walks back to his apartment, but ultimately decides to wait until he knows for sure. 

He dresses in street clothes, eats an early lunch, and goes to the parking garage to get his car out. Brock isn't certain the government-funded clinic will see walk-ins, but he doesn't mind driving over there even if he only gets to schedule an appointment. He needs to escape the walls of the Triskelion for a while. 

The clinic is a cozy little brick building and the staff is friendly. Brock feels out of place filling out paperwork in the waiting room, mainly because he's so much older than anyone else he's seen so far. A visibly pregnant omega, more than half his age, is sitting across from him. Two pups are in the small play area in the corner of the room; their beta mother tells them to keep it down. It's a bit of a wait, but the clinic is able to see Brock without an appointment.

He explains his situation and symptoms to a nurse who draws blood. It will take some time for the results to come back, but they are more accurate than a urine test. In the meantime, the doctor decides to perform an ultrasound. 

Brock expects cold jelly across his lower abdomen, but they have him change into a gown and insert the wand into his slit. Brock isn't prepared for this and feels a bit annoyed when the doctor inevitably asks about his episiotomy scar. His slit is so tense that his internal muscles want to force the wand out of his body. The doctor asks him to reach down and hold it inside. The nurse turns off the room light and Brock feels a bit better because the focus is on the screen and not necessarily him. All he can see is a grainy blob. 

“You're pregnant,” the doctor says. “About five weeks.” 

Brock doesn't feel the icy horror of realization that he was expecting. He's quiet, looking up at the ceiling tiles while he lets the information soak into his brain. He's pregnant. Although very tiny, there is a pup inside him.

“Okay,” he says. 

“I can't see anything but the gestational sac right now, but it's there,” the doctor says, removing the probe from Brock's slit. “Do you want to discuss your options?”

Options. Brock already knows what they are. The nurse turns on the light and offers a hand to help Brock sit up on the exam table. He feels vulnerable in nothing but the thin hospital gown he wears. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I'm thinking about an abortion.”

“This early on, we can give you medication that will terminate the pregnancy. The first pill is given here, and the second one is taken at home. It causes a heavy bleed and cramping—”

“I don't want that,” Brock says with a shake of his head. His body already went through that and it didn't fucking work. He pauses, then offers a somewhat bogus excuse. “I live alone.” 

“I completely understand. Your other option is a procedure at this clinic, where you won't be alone,” the doctor says. 

All this kindness and compassion makes Brock ache a bit. This counsel should be reserved for a young omega who got raped, not a spec ops soldier who is obviously old enough to know better. But he's not treated any differently. 

“I think that's better for me,” Brock says.

“All right, we just have some counseling you have to complete and then we can schedule you,” the doctor responds. 

Brock has to meet with another person to discuss his options in depth, all to ensure he completely understands each one. They talk about the procedure and sign paperwork. 

Brock schedules the appointment not feeling one hundred percent sure if he wants to go through with it. It's not until next week, so he tells himself he has until at least that long to think about it. 

Brock decided tell Jack the news once the pregnancy was confirmed, but now he's not certain about that either. Why tell Jack he's pregnant just to turn around and have the fetus suctioned out of him? It seems cruel. Maybe it's better for Jack to never know about it at all. 

Brock tries to convince himself that he will not be a good mother. He doesn't deserve a baby after he so readily handed off the first one. But he finds himself wanting a change. He doesn't want to be transplanted into another team and get pushed around—or worse—maybe have to work with the asset again. Even getting reinstated as the leader of ST-Bravo doesn't sound that appealing right now. Despite being in excellent health, his biological clock is ticking. What if this is his last chance at a little family? 

All of these thoughts swirl continuously in Brock's head for the next week. He texts with Jack, but can never find the courage to tell him the news. It just doesn't feel right. Saying it to his face would be better. 

The day of the appointment comes and Brock checks himself out of the Triskelion before he takes his car from the garage. It's a gloomy day and rain is falling by the time Brock pulls into the parking lot of the clinic. They instructed him to bring someone to drive him home afterward, but he has no such person. 

He sits there in his car, engine idling. His view of the little brick building is slowly obscured by raindrops until the wipers clear the windshield. This process repeats many times before Brock can form a coherent thought. He doesn't want to go through with this. 

Brock knows that a decent, polite person would call and cancel the appointment, but he is neither of those things. He drives away instead. 

Back at the Triskelion, he circles around the garage in search of a parking spot. If he were philosophical at all, the action would be a great metaphor for his life right now. Aimless and circling. Just as he is pulling into a parking spot, he sees Jack hopping out of his car on the other end of the garage. Jack is standing by the bumper of his own car when Brock gets out of his. 

“Thought that was your car,” Jack says, voice echoing in the dimly lit cavern of concrete. 

Brock can't help the grin he gives in response. Jack can somehow make him smile in spite of the heavy shit he's dealing with. 

“Hey,” is all he can muster to say. 

“Hey,” Jack says. “It's been a while.”

He seems happy to see Brock, but his hands are tucked firmly into his pockets. Brock knows it's just his hormones talking, but he desperately wants a hug or even a friendly punch in the shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Brock agrees. He rubs the back of his neck. “Listen, I gotta tell you somethin’...” 

His voice trails as he hesitates, but Jack is silent. Brock is on his own. 

“...I'm pregnant.” 

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Wow,” he says. 

He seems surprised but not excited. Something is off and it's freaking Brock out. Maybe things are over between them. 

“I guess I thought you'd be happy.” 

“Oh, I'm happy for you, but why are you telling me this?” Jack asks. 

Brock's realization is fiery and swift. Jack thinks someone else knocked him up. “It's your baby, dumbass.” 

“How?” Jack asks with a frown. 

“I asked that too,” Brock says. “They said the fertilized egg might have still been hiding in my Fallopian tube or some shit. I've been on suppressants for so long that I still had enough lining in my uterus for it to latch onto. They said it can happen.” 

Jack nods, but he still doesn't come off as thrilled. It's making Brock wonder if he shouldn't have skipped his appointment. 

“I'm five weeks along.” Brock hates that he feels like he needs to convince Jack that the baby is his. “Which lines up with when I went into heat.”

“And what are you going to do now?” Jack asks. 

Brock swallows thickly. He doesn't know anymore. “I had an abortion scheduled, but I couldn't go through with it,” he says. “Not telling you seemed unfair.”

“So are you telling me this before you reschedule, or…?” 

“Stop being an asshole. I'm telling you this because you're the dad and I'm thinking about keeping it,” Brock says angrily. “But I don't want to do it by myself.” 

His words hang in the rainy air and Jack looks stricken. He supposes Jack had finally let go of the idea of them ever having a family together. Before Brock can say anything further, Jack lurches forward and throws his arms around him. Brock's ribs are so compressed that he can hardly take a breath. 

“I'm sorry,” Jack murmurs against the side of Brock's neck. “I just didn't think there could be any way…” 

Brock allows himself to go lax in the embrace. For the first time in quite a while, he feels safe. “I'm sorry too,” he says, not bothering to name any of his many transgressions. 

He can feel Jack sniffing at him, so he tilts his head to the side to grant the alpha better access to his scent. Brock still can't really smell any difference unless he rubs behind his ears or gets sweaty during a workout. But it's there, the bakery smell that Garrett described. He is undeniably pregnant. 

Brock gasps and shudders when Jack very gently licks behind his ear. It's pleasurable—wet and warm and deeply intimate. It suddenly feels like Jack is keeping him upright with the arm he has around his back. 

“You taste good,” Jack rumbles, voice low. “Like rye bread or somethin’.”

“Kiss me,” Brock says, and Jack turns his head so their mouths can meet.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [Come hang out with me on Tumblr!](http://www.prozacplease.tumblr.com)
> 
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> ♥ Comments are always appreciated. ♥


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